Pardon Me
by katbybee
Summary: Spring is in the air...and allergies lay a hero low...Will his remedy prove to end up worse than what ails him? You know the drill...


It was that early morning peaceful time in Barracks Two. All was quiet. Even the earlier risers had not yet begun to stir, and all was still right with the world on this beautiful spring morning.

Suddenly, a sound reminiscent of a derailing freight train rent the air. "Aaaaaahhhh—cchhhhooooo!" Andrew Carter was nearly knocked from his bed as his bunkmate practically fell from his bunk from the sheer force of his sneezes. Newkirk jumped down and sat on the bench beside the table and shook his head vigorously, trying to clear it. Apparently, that move only served to aggravate the problem, because he promptly sneezed four more times.

By this time, all the men in the room were sitting up in their bunks and glowering at him. There was still at least two hours left before roll call, and the interruption was not appreciated. It wasn't that they weren't concerned—it was just that most of them had been through this before…

Hogan sat up in bed, and assessed the situation. He had heard the sneezing and the other men grumbling, and realized what must have happened. Strange, how quickly time passed…he hadn't realized it was already spring. He smirked when he thought about his tough, street-smart Londoner felled each year…by allergies. He climbed out of his bunk and made some hot tea from his own stash and took two cups out to the table. He had known Peter wouldn't be sleeping; he never could after a severe attack.

As he started through the door, he realized Carter was sitting quietly with him. Hogan smiled. He set one of the mugs in front of each of them, and then went back and poured another for himself. He knew Carte normally refused to drink tea, but wouldn't protest this time, and he didn't.

He studied Newkirk as casually as he could. The man looked completely miserable. He was dabbing at his eyes with his handkerchief, and attempting to calm the cough that was developing.

"Is there anything Wilson can do?"

"Not much, guv. If I could get me 'ands on some whiskey, honey, and a lemon, I could fix up somethin' that would help a bit, but it just has to run its course."

"I'll see you get what you need, Newkirk."

Newkirk sipped the hot tea gratefully. "Thank you, guv. This is good…Twining's innit?"

"It is. I found it in one of my drawers after our last visit from Crittendon. Apparently, he forgot it."

Carter looked up at that. "No, he didn't sir. He left it on purpose."

Newkirk scoffed, "An' why would that bloody fool do that?"

Andrew scowled. "Because he knew. He knew we didn't really want him here. He's not stupid. People sense that kind of thing. And they act the way they think people expect them to act. And that's sad, because you never really know who somebody is. And they never know you." Abruptly, he stood up from the table. "I'm gonna get a little more shut eye."

Hogan and Newkirk sat for a moment longer, each lost in their own thoughts. Was Carter right? Was it possible that Crittendon was not exactly the bumbling incompetent they perceived him to be? If so, what did they say about who Crittendon was, and more importantly, who _they_ were?

Around them, LeBeau and a couple of the other men began moving about as their early-morning routine began. Newkirk sneezed mightily a couple more times, and all the men began to groan and complain once again. It was probably a good thing there were no pillows in the barracks, or Newkirk probably would have been buried under most of them at that point.

A vision suddenly ran through Hogan's mind, as he viewed the chaos around him, of Newkirk attempting to crack a very stubborn safe and suddenly sneezing right in the middle of the job and getting caught, or of him helping to set charges on a bridge, and sneezing so hard he knocked both himself and the charges into the river…or worse.

He eyed the Brit quite seriously for a moment, knowing Newkirk was not going to be happy. "Corporal, I am ordering you to stand down on all missions where the team's safety could be compromised due to your allergies, until they no longer pose a danger. I will let Sgt. Wilson be the judge of that. We both know from past experience it should be no more than a few weeks.

Newkirk's expression turned mutinous, and his eyes burned a stormy green for a few moments, but he understood his commander's orders. They made sense. He would spend the time repairing and augmenting the clothing they maintained for their espionage operation, and helping in any other way he could.

It was nearly a week before LeBeau was able find all the ingredients to make the syrup Newkirk needed…courtesy of a visiting Boche General with a fondness for whiskey. He had brought a bottle into camp, left it in his luggage in the visitor's quarters, and Carter had liberated it just before he had left the camp.

All the men gathered to watch Newkirk make his allergy medicine. He had been driving them all crazy the past few weeks, so they were all praying the stuff would work.

Carter brought Newkirk a clean empty bottle and a cork, and Newkirk poured a generous tot of whiskey, some honey, a few squeezes of lemon, some very hot water, and a few dashes of salt.

Carter stopped him. "You're missing something."

Peter raised an eyebrow as he looked at his mate in confusion, "I am?"

Carter nodded emphatically, and went to his footlocker. He pulled out a popper and handed it to Peter.

Newkirk's eyes flew open, "You want me to add gunpowder?"

Carter nodded, and Newkirk considered a moment, shrugged, and dropped the chocolate chip-sized contents of the silk packet into the bottle.

Carter solemnly told him, "You might just wanna be careful when you shake it."

He eyed the concoction judiciously, and added another generous dollop of whiskey. He then corked the bottle and shook it gently. When he had decided it was mixed enough, he uncorked it, and took a small swig.

His reaction was immediate and amusing. His eyes crossed and he sat back heavily onto the bench behind him. He carefully placed the bottle back onto the table. He blew out his breath and grinned. In a strangled voice, he wheezed… ¨Crikey, mates, I think that's got it!"

The men all laughed. Hogan picked up the bottle and sniffed the contents. He pulled his head away quickly and corked the bottle. "Phew, don't anybody light a match in here!" He smiled and clapped Newkirk on the back. "Anything that smells that bad just has to work!"

Newkirk grinned back. "Oh, yes, sir…just wait!"

And less than two weeks later, the medicine had proved its worth. Peter Newkirk was right back where he belonged. Although his allergies were by no means cured, at least he was able to quiet the symptoms, and if he were slightly glassy-eyed and a bit goofy at times, well, his mates found a way around that, as well.

~The End~

A/N They say, "Write what you know," allergies, I know! But as for Peter's allergy remedy…do not try this at home, lol! And if you do, I take no responsibility for your actions!


End file.
